MINOR IRRITATIONS OF LIFE – THEY ALL ADD UP

It’s the deathnell for your dress, it’s curtains for your coat, it’s a travesty for your trousers – yep a button has fallen off and it is the end, my beautiful friend.

Oh I’ve had to bid farewell to some crackers in my time, but once that circular piece of plastic drops to the ground for the first and final time, that is it – there’s no going back.

I have never, ever, EVER re-attached a button to any shirt, pair of trousers, coat or cardigan in my life and I’m not about to start now. I’ve wanted to. I’ve fantasised about breathing new life into my favourite top, of resuscitating that pair of jeans that fit just right. But it’s never happened. And it’s never going to happen. Because the clothes have made their decision. They’ve had enough. They’ve devised their own exit strategy. They’re tired of you and your increasing waistband. They don’t want to be straining at the seams any longer. They’d rather find themselves cold and alone in a recycling bin than have to be pulled over your lumbering sweaty chest ever again. And so they’ve discarded the one thing that they know will end this relationship. The button.

And once this criminal act has been executed, it’s time for you to find a replacement piece of clothing. You return to the same shop you bought the original in, hoping to find a replica or something that is at least slightly similar. You might get lucky. But in the end you know you’re settling for second best. That your new chequered shirt will never live up to its predecessor. Oh it’s 100% cotton alright, but that colour, it’s just not the same shade; the buttons are too high; the neckline plunges too low. It’s adequate, but it’s not spectacular. But you buy it, just because.

And then you return home, head bowed as you look to the ground, remembering the good times. And there in front of you is that button. The button that gave up. The button that committed shirt suicide.